Dr. Ian West

No rest for the wicked.

That’s the saying, right? That all the wicked, evil-doers are too busy plotting and destroying beauty to get a good night’s sleep. Which makes sense, seeing as in order to pull off an elaborate corruption of the justice system, Shaver had to be controlling many moving parts.

He’s been a wicked, busy bee.

The hospital swarms with nurses and patients. The hallway’s a bustle of blue scrubs and white gowns. I’m seated in the corridor outside Porter’s room. Not technically a room in the ER, she’s behind the curtain, where I’m not allowed.

A serious-looking nurse with tired eyes tried to move me. And though I normally have enough compassion to commiserate with hardworking, tired nurses, that’s not happening today. This woman was either going to have to Taser me, or get me a pass.

She got me a pass. Though I think she was considering the Taser.

I fiddle with the nametag on my rumpled dress shirt, thinking about all those moving parts, as I await Porter’s update.

Two policemen and a detective already interviewed me, with the promise to return once they investigate more thoroughly. That means Shaver will be alerted soon that his scheme failed.

During the trial recess, I spoke with Eddie, filling in the blanks.

“Who does the container belong to? Who put it there?” he asked. Very good questions. Ones that I hope Major Crimes can trace back to Shaver.

Not that we don’t have enough on him as it is to put him away for the rest of his twisted life, but again, it’s those damn puzzle pieces. I’m not OCD by any means, but I like my cases solved. Absolutely. I like when all the parts align in a clear, concise picture.

What we do know so far: The shipping container was scheduled to be loaded onto a truck and moved this afternoon. I flash the home screen on my phone. 6:26 p.m. By this time, right now—had we been any later in getting to Porter—she would be gone.

The shock of that realization hasn’t worn off yet.

I close my eyes. Breathe deeply, slowly.

According to the labs that have come back, Porter was dosed with propofol (or what the agitated nurse called a bolus), and an even larger dose of lorazepam, which is a generic sedative. A lethal cocktail that, if not administered correctly, could induce coma or death. But the perpetrator kept her alive, and under sedation for hours at a time. He kept her pliant and unable to fight.

That’s a tall order of specific knowledge for a drug lord’s crony.

Just one of the pieces that don’t yet line up. Who would Shaver have under his thumb? A nurse? A pharmacist? A doctor? How could a person who clearly studied medicine, who’s very first lesson is do no harm, sell their very soul in order to torture another human being?

Because, although Porter is recovering physically, make no mistake, the recovery time from the psychological aspect will take much longer. Porter was tortured.

Attacked in her home. Violently assaulted. Drugged.

Left alone for hours in the pitch-black, paralyzed, with only her fear.

I bury my head in my hands. Dig my fingers against my skull. “It’s over.”

I repeat this to myself. Over and over. I’m shaking, the lingering adrenaline still working its way from my system.

“It’s over.” Eddie’s voice echos mine.

I look up. He’s standing in front of me, hands in his suit pockets. The epitome of a satisfied prosecutor. He takes the seat beside me.

“How did you get a pass?”

He shrugs. “Working in the DA’s office, you spend a lot of time in hospitals. The nurses like me here.”

I nod knowingly, trying and failing to smile. It comes off more like an awkward grimace. I’m trying.

“You don’t have to take the stand tomorrow,” Eddie says, his tone reassuring. “Stay with Porter. I’ve spoken with Major Crimes. The shipping container was traced to one of Shaver’s businesses. We have enough evidence to hang him.”

I blow out a long breath. The trial feels a million light-years away. “What does Mia think?”

His mouth flattens into a hard line. Not a very convincing expression. “Mia thinks there’s still a couple of jurors that are wavering. I don’t get it, but she’s the brains of the jury operation.”

“The mother of the addict and the history teacher.”

Eddie sighs. “That’s the two. Maybe it’s the adolescent angle. Both of them deal with kids, so there’s some residual, protective thing going on there.”

I crane an eyebrow, impressed. “Mia’s rubbing off on you. Maybe you two should work together more often.”

The slightest tinge of red flushes his face. “She’s great. Really.” His narrowed gaze slides my way. “But don’t go there.”

I bark a laugh, surprising myself. My neuroplasticity is showing again. The mind’s ability to adapt in the face of adversity is amazing. Either that, or the wiring in my brain has short-circuited.

Stress can do that.

A solemn countenance washes over Eddie. “How is she doing?”

I watch as a nurse nearly tackles a man trying to leave the ER. I allow myself to get lost in the scene. “She’ll recover,” I say, distracted. I rub my eyes. “Thirty-one hours.” That’s how long Porter was inside that shipping container…waiting. Dying. So painstakingly slow.

He pats my shoulder. “She’s strong. She’ll be busting my ass in court again soon.”

Work. That’s what I need to focus on, at least until the warden of a nurse let’s me see Porter. “What else can I do on the case.”

It’s not a question; it’s a statement. More like a plea. Me begging Eddie to let me in—to give me a job. A role reversal for us that makes him speechless for a lapsed moment.

“Ian. You’ve done it all. Don’t you get that? Shaver’s never going to see the outside of prison because of you.”

“It’s still up to the jury.”

He groans. “Let me worry about that this time. Mia has your back.”

“How is the defense taking the introduction of all this new evidence?”

“Smigel is demanding a separate trial.” He holds up a hand to stop any interruption. “But even if Judge O’Hare sides with the defense on this, we have him. Whether it’s this trial or the next. He’s going down.”

There can’t be a next trial. Because the next trial would involve Porter taking the stand as a witness. As a victim.

“Then you need me,” I say. “I’m a credible, expert witness. Moreover, I have firsthand implications from Shaver. As I’m not on a legal team, my meetings with Shaver aren’t bound by confidentiality.”

But more than that, I need to look this sadistic bastard in the eyes and tell him he’s lost.

“We’ll see. Take tomorrow to spend with Porter. She needs a good doctor by her side.” He smiles warmly. “There’s plenty of time to testify if that’s where we need to go.”

I nod, unable, or unwilling, to debate the case. Eddie is a damn fine ADA. I want my moment, I want to take Shaver all the way down…but I also want to protect Porter. This time, from the very start.

Nurse Warden peeks her head through the curtain. “Dr. West, she’s awake and asking for you.”

Elation springs me out of the chair. Every tired bone forgotten.

As the nurse pushes aside a sheer panel, the beep of the heart monitor welcomes me inside the curtained cocoon. My heart gallops painfully inside my chest, racing, willing hers to beat stronger. Her slender body is wrapped in a nest of tubes and wires. She looks frail.

But her eyes… When her golden irises find me, every bit of tension cording my muscles dissolves. Shaver doesn’t matter. The case, my company, all of it…gone.

This woman is my life. She’s all I need.

I grab hold of her hand, stopping myself from gripping too tightly. The nurse points just outside the area. “Ten minutes, Dr. West. Then my patient needs rest.”

I nod, my voice too choked.

Porter’s thumb rubs my hand, that slight movement every ray of hope. I stroke her hair back from her forehead. The darkened skin beneath her eyes is starting to color again.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say.

She tries to shake her head, but she’s still weak. Her voice comes out even weaker, hoarse and cracked. “You saved me.”

My eyes shut briefly. “Do you remember anything?”

Her throat pulses with a swallow. I reach for the cup on the tray, and she squeezes my hand. “I’m okay,” she says. “No. Not really. Just glimpses as I faded in and out. When I woke up here, I wasn’t sure if I’d been gone a day or a year.”

Her words cut through me. There are no rehearsals for moments like this in life. Sure, movies supply us the tired, cliché phrases. And they work when we’re at a loss; if we’re too weary to try; if you’re that guy. But I can’t be, because Porter deserves better—she deserves honest.

“I was arrogant,” I admit. I place my hand over hers, encasing her slender fingers. They’re so cold. “I took on Shaver during that first meeting like a conceited hotshot. I basically challenged him, dared him…”

She blinks up at me. “Do you really believe that? Because if you do, then you’re even more arrogant than you think. Quentin Shaver was my client. He orchestrated all of this, and he didn’t need your help or your challenge—” She breaks off, winded.

I prop the pillow behind her head, trying to be of some damn use. “You’re right. Still, I should’ve known. With his pathology, I knew he was dangerous. I should’ve—”

“What? Insisted I remove myself from the case?” She frowns knowingly.

I match her derisive glare. Touché.

She coughs and attempts to sit up, but I lay a hand on her shoulder. With a sigh, she says, “It wasn’t about you. I was his lawyer and it wasn’t even about me. It was about him. He did all this for himself. And we can volley blame and guilt back and forth until we’re both blue in the face, or we can move the hell on.” She laces her fingers through mine. “You did save me, West.”

I kiss her forehead.

“Inside that hell, all I could do was try to move and,” she says, searching for words, “and talk to Mel. When I was lucid enough. Maybe it was the drugs, but I swear she heard me. And I swear…she told me you were going to save me.”

A tear slips from the corner of her eye. I wipe her cheek. “I believe you.” I do believe her, because without Mel, I would’ve found Porter too late, or not at all.

There is science, and then there is faith.

The two do not exist on the same plane. Just a week ago, had you tried to feed me some lame line about trusting in a higher power, I wouldn’t have taken your case. I’m all about the science, the proof.

I can feel Mel rolling her eyes behind my back even as I think this.

I don’t know what happened today, but I don’t have to. And I don’t have to prove it. Porter and I believe we’re here because of a love we share for Mel. That’s enough. That’s a connection that will never be broken, no matter what happens between us.

She leans her face into my hand, seeking comfort. But then, just as suddenly, her face pales. “I have a card,” she whispers.

Heart thumping erratically, I get closer. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, God. I didn’t know if I was dreaming, dead, or what…but when I was able to keep my eyes open, I remember now. He wore a mask, and he had a card.” Her eyes clench shut. Her words are rushed. “Some kind of devil mask. And the card was… The Lovers.”

She’s shaking. Tears well against her eyelids. Seeing her struggle to recall this horrid memory tears through me. “Hey. It’s okay. It will come back in time.” I pray not.

She shakes her head repeatedly against the pillow. “I’m not a snake,” she says. “I’m not a snake…”

I clasp her face, forcing her to stop, and look into her eyes. “Whatever he said, it’s not true.”

Her lips tremble. “I don’t remember it all. But I loved Mel, and I’m not a snake.”

My breath releases hot through the fiery ache. Shaver will not have the last round—he will not torture her any longer. “You’re caring and giving, and selfless. And you’re the woman I love.”

Her eyes close as she nods. She grips my hands. “I love you so much, West. Tell me it’s over.”

“It’s over, Porter.” I caress her cheek. “You don’t have to think about it, and you don’t have to fight to remember. He’s a liar, and he’s the snake. Let your brain rest. The mind blocks painful memories when we’re too weak so we can focus on healing. You never have to recall anything. Just heal.”

A quivering smile tugs at her mouth. “You’re shrinking me.”

“I am. But it’s the truth. Don’t think about it ever again.” I place a tender kiss to her lips.

She sighs in relief as she relaxes. “I’ve never seen you so serious. Stop it.”

I laugh. “You want the arrogant dick back? Will that make you feel better?”

“Yes. At least I know what to do with that guy.” She attempts a wink. If it wasn’t for the pain she’s suffering, it would be adorably awkward.

“I have plenty for you to do to me later.” I kiss her again.

As she drifts off, I stand watch over her. Porter is strong. Resilient. She’ll balance between good days and bad as she heals—physically and mentally—but her ability to relate and joke marks a positive starting point.

Still, something bothers me. I move toward the containers holding her clothes. I do a quick search, looking for the Tarot card. It might be a suggestive memory, her mind mixing the facts of the case and her abduction. Or it could have even been a drug-induced hallucination. Or a psychosomatic result of anxiety.

Her pockets are empty. Nothing in the bins.

Adrenaline officially vacated, I nearly collapse. I catch the wall and ease myself down along the floor. The nurse comes in to check and, she must think I’m the most miserable soul to ever grace her ER, because she simply frowns and leaves me a rumpled mess on the floor.

Shaver gave me a card because, as he put it, I had a purpose. I was a player in his twisted scheme. He may be deluded enough to believe the cards give him a more profound purpose other than his compulsion to kill, but the fact is, Porter was merely a chess piece to him, his pawn, to move me around the board.

She doesn’t fit his victim profile. If Shaver gave her a Tarot card, it’d be on her person. Shaver needs that psychological control over his victims.

He wore a devil mask.

Death is his favorite card.

All summed up by Shaver’s infatuation with the Arcana. That’s all.

I rest the back of my head against the wall, listening to Porter’s even breaths. When my choice is clear, I steel my resolve and find Eddie.